Return
by Belka
Summary: A small story I wrote 2 years ago after watching "Number Crunch".


**_I wrote this story long ago, when I'd watched "Number Crunch" for the first time. Yes, we have learned a lot since then, but I just want to share this one-shot with you._**

**_And I'd like to say thank you for my wonderful and really supportive beta - Hawkeye4077, you are awesome!:)_**

xxxxxx

Harold Finch has never been a religious man. He believes in the human mind, in science and the infallibility of numbers. But if anybody asked him what kind of place hell could be, Finch could tell more than any priest.

Oh, hell is the most individual, most private and the most intimate of all places in the universe. Finch knew that in his own hell there were neither fires, nor cauldrons with boiling pitch nor a frozen lake. Hell was an endless chain of the worst moments of his life: everlasting, indelible pain; eternal, inescapable guilt and paralysing helplessness.

Hell gained upon him again and again. And Finch repeatedly found himself facing the worst of his nightmares.

It's always a race. It's a race across the city; a blind, furious race in desperate attempt to be in time, to conquer the circumstances, to fight the obstacles…

Finch lost count of how many times he'd seen all of it in his dreams long ago. But reality is always worse than any nightmare.

There's always blood. Not his, some other's blood. When he's sitting in the hospital, waiting for the end of Reese's operation, Finch doesn't feel the blood drying on his hands, he doesn't see, he doesn't hear anything around him. In his thoughts he's still driving through the night city, through the darkness and lights, to save a man - the last and the only man, whose life is worth Harold Finch's existence.

xxxxxx

Years ago, when John Reese had been working for CIA, he'd got used to the idea that death lurked in wait for him anywhere: the deserts of the Middle East, towns ruined during the war in Kosovo infested by death. Even skyscrapers of the New World, glistening like icebergs, could be a perfect hide-out for snipers, and any face could be the face of an enemy.

Deep in his mind Reese had always known that he would meet his death not in the white-hot sands of deserts or in the endless snowy forests of Russia. He knew that he would be killed not by some religious fanatic or a soldier of some national guard.

He would be killed by an assassin, by an equal.

Any life is worth living only when you have something to die for. The death of Jessica devalued, made everything he'd got, senseless. During recent years John Reese often flirted with death. He thought that death could be his escape, a final period in the twisted novel of his life.

But that evening, in the parking garage, when the darkness almost engulfed his conscience, John Reese saw human faces. Not only the deathly pale face of Harold Finch, who was panting, suffocating under unbearable weight of emotions and responsibility, not only the face of Joss Carter, who was tracking his blood traces like a bloodhound; at the very last moment he noticed the unshed tears in her eyes and this was more important for him than any possible words...

Reese saw faces of Megan Tillman, of both Sam Gates, of Theresa Whitaker, of Wendy and Paula, of Joey Durban…

And he realized that he wanted to come back.

xxxxxx

All his senses return at once. John's eyes are still closed, but he hears the beeping of medical treatment monitors, feels the coolness of his bed sheets, rustling like paper. The pain is here too, but now it's barely smouldering, dulled by drugs.

John opens his eyes.

Finch is dozing in the armchair two feet from his bed; an open book with a grey cover which at any moment could fall from his relaxed hand. Reese doesn't want to wake him, but he's too happy to be back.

"Didn't think I'd be so glad to see you again," he says.

The sound of his voice makes Harold flinch and his open book falls on the floor like a dead bird. Reese manages to notice the black letters on its cover: H. G. Wells. War of the Worlds.

Finch blinks, as if the light is too bright for him, though there are only two little night lights in the room, takes the book from the floor, uneasily gets up and makes a step to John's bed.

"Have you forgotten, John?" He slightly tilts his head like a bird, his voice sounds tired, but Finch doesn't even try (or can't?) to hide it. "We're both already dead."

They look at each other and the silence is cracking like an electric arc between them. Suddenly John flashes a broad smile and he swears that for a briefest moment his smile is mirrored on his employer's face.

"Any new numbers?" he asks seriously. For several seconds Finch is silent, avoiding his stare.

"As you remember, they never stop coming," he replies at last. The ghost of a smile on his face totally faded.

"And how did you manage?"

"I made a choice in favour of the greater good," Finch's voice is tinged with a strange, intangible emotion and Reese is not sure if he's talking about the present situation or something else. "If I... If you hadn't... I'm afraid all following numbers wouldn't have any chance to be saved."

Reese wants to say something, but Finch waves his hand dismissively.

"But, of course, I took care of everything. I've managed to hand the new case over to... to our friends from the police."

Now Reese is silent, overwhelmed again with a long-forgotten feeling, which comes to you when you're back home after a long and hard mission.

"How are you feeling?" Finch is the first to break the silence.

Reese is watching his employer; he doesn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but Finch seems to have become ten years older.

"And you?" John asks in return.

Any other time Finch would get rid of this question with some witty and elusive phrase, but now his head is spinning, he feels almost dizzy with joy and fatigue.

"I'm fine," he replies quickly and, to his own surprise, notices that his voice is trembling. John's face blurs in foggy spots and Finch takes his glasses off and starts to clean the lenses.

"I'll be back in a minute", he says, going to the exit.

Reese's joking remark reaches him at the door. "Looks like you've got some grey hair".

Finch reflectively touches his temple and feels the tiny artery, rapidly pulsing under his skin.

"I started having grey hair long ago".

He has to leave, but stops for some reason.

"Harold?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?" He doesn't turn back.

"It seems that you did it this time."

Finch freezes on the spot.

"I haven't got the slightest idea what you're talking about." His lie is easy.

Reese hears the common ironic notes in his voice, but they're also tinted with some other emotion.

"You were in time," simply explains Reese, and Finch is grateful to non-existent God that John cannot see his face at this moment.

xxxxxx

When Finch is back, in a quarter of an hour, Reese is already asleep and Finch's common dispassionate mask is useless.

Finch has never been a religious man. He knows that his hell hasn't gone away, that it's just hiding, being subdued by his victory, he knows that his glory is almost illusory …

But watching his friend sleeping, he thinks, no, he is sure, that next time - and this next time will undoubtedly come! - when his blood is boiling with adrenaline, when fear is freezing his heart and taking his breath away, he, Harold Finch, will know that not only hell exists.


End file.
